The owner of the wallet dropped in a downtown carparkis a Samoan who loves Holdens and eating outdoors.His friend count reveals he is no more or less gregariousthan me and I wonder what else we have in common.

This is how people fall in love these days,not that I have any intention of falling in lovewith the man in the photo on the pub table in front of me.

I wonder if the last person ever to writetheir phone number on the back of a beer-soaked bar coasterknew they were seeing out the epochwhere the speech Bogart delivered to Bergmanbeside the plane at the end of Casablanca was possible.

And there would come a day when we couldno longer really lose a person while they were breathing,when we’d know exactly where the one who got awaygot away to and what they had for breakfast.

Hotcakes, it turns out, with maple syrup in anantique-looking glass bottle that lends itself wellto Instagram’s vintage filter. It’s a scene manufactured likesomething out of an old-fashioned film,a man sitting outside a central city café, sporting half a smile,not for the face behind the camera but somefar-off, unknown admirer.